The Hatred of
the Queen, A
Story of Burma

by L. Adams Beck

MOST wonderful is the Irawadi, the mighty river of Burma.
In all the world elsewhere is no such river, bearing the
melted snows from its mysterious sources in the high places
of the mountains. The dawn rises upon its league-wide flood;
the moon walks upon it with silver feet. It is the pulsing
heart of the land, living still though so many rules and
rulers have risen and fallen beside it, their pomps and
glories drifting like flotsam down the river to the eternal
ocean that is the end of all--and the beginning. Dead
civilizations strew its banks, dreaming in the torrid
sunshine of glories that were--of blood-stained gold, jewels
wept from woeful crowns, nightmare dreams of murder and
terror; dreaming also of heavenly beauty, for the Lord
Buddha looks down in moonlight peace upon the land that
leaped to kiss His footprints, that has laid its heart in
the hand of the Blessed One, and shares therefore in His
bliss and content. The Land of the Lord Buddha, where the
myriad pagodas lift their golden flames of worship
everywhere, and no idlest wind can pass but it ruffles the
bells below the htees until they send forth their silver
ripple of music to swell the hymn of praise!

There is a little bay on the bank of the
flooding river--a silent, deserted place of sand-dunes and
small bills. When a ship is in sight, some poor folk come
and spread out the red lacquer that helps their scanty
subsistence, and the people from the passing ship land and
barter and in a few minutes are gone on their busy way and
silence settles down once more. They neither know nor care
that, near by, a mighty city spread its splendour for miles
along the river bank, that the king known as Lord of the
Golden Palace, The Golden Foot, Lord of the White Elephant,
held his state there with halls of magnificence, obsequious
women, fawning courtiers and all the riot and colour of an
Eastern tyranny. How should they care? Now there are
ruins--ruins, and the cobras slip in and out through the
deserted holy places. They breed their writhing young in the
sleeping-chambers of queens, the tigers mew in the
moonlight, and the giant spider, more terrible than the
cobra, strikes with its black poison-claw and, paralyzing
the life of the victim, sucks its brain with slow,
lascivious pleasure.

Are these foul creatures more dreadful than
some of the men, the women, who dwelt in these palaces--the
more evil because of the human brain that plotted and
foresaw? That is known only to the mysterious Law that in
silence watches and decrees.

But this is a story of the dead days of
Pagan, by the
Irawadi, and it will be shown that, as the Lotus of the Lord
Buddha grows up a white splendour from the black mud of the
depths, so also may the soul of a woman.

In the days of the Lord of the White
Elephant, the King Pagan Men, was a boy named Mindon, son of the second Queen and the
King. So, at least, it was said in the Golden Palace, but
those who knew the secrets of such matters whispered that,
when the King had taken her by the hand she came to him no
maid, and that the boy was the son of an Indian trader.
Furthermore it was said that she herself was woman of the
Rajputs, knowledgable in spells, incantations and elemental
spirits such as the Beloos that terribly haunt waste places,
and all Powers that move in the dark, and that thus she had
won the King. Certainly she had been captured by the Kines
war-boats off the coast from a trading-ship bound for
Ceylon, and it was her story that, because of her beauty,
she was sent thither to serve as concubine to the King,
Tissa of Ceylon. Being captured, she was brought to the Lord
of the Golden Palace. The tongue she spoke was strange to
all the fighting men, but it was wondrous to see how swiftly
she learnt theirs and spoke it with a sweet ripple such as
is in the throat of a bird.

She was beautiful exceedingly, with a colour
of pale gold upon her and lengths of silk-spun hair, and
eyes like those of a jungle-deer, and water might run
beneath the arch of her foot without wetting it, and her
breasts were like the cloudy pillows where the sun couches
at setting.

Now, at Pagan, the name they called her was Dwaymenau, but
her true name, known only to herself, was Sundari, and she
knew not the Law of the Blessed Buddha but was a heathen
accursed. In the strong hollow of her hand she held the
heart of the King, so that on the birth of her son she had
risen from a mere concubine to be the second Queen and a
power to whom all bowed. The First Queen, Maya, languished
in her palace, her pale beauty wasting daily, deserted and
lonely, for she had been the light of the King's eyes until
the coming of the Indian woman, and she loved her lord with
a great love and was a noble woman brought up in honour and
all things becoming a queen. But sigh as she would, the King
came never. All night he lay in the arms of Dwaymenau, all
day he sat beside her, whether at the great water pageants
or at the festival when the dancing-girls swayed and
postured before him in her gilded chambers. Even when he
went forth to hunt the tiger, she went with him as far as a
woman may go, and then stood back only because he would not
risk his jewel, her life. So all that was evil in the man
she fostered and all that was good she cherished not at all,
fearing lest he should return to the Queen. At her will he
had consulted the Hlwot Daw, the Council of the Woon-gyees
or Ministers, concerning a divorce of the Queen, but this
they told him could not be since she had kept all the laws
of Manu, being faithful, noble and beautiful and having
borne him a son.

For, before the Indian woman had come to the
King, the Queen had borne a son, Ananda, and he was pale and
slender and the King despised him because of the wiles of
Dwaymenau, saying he was fit only to sit among the women,
having the soul of a slave, and he laughed bitterly as the
pale child crouched in the corner to see him pass. If his
eyes had been clear, he would have known that here was no
slave, but a heart as much greater than his own as the
spirit is stronger than the body. But this he did not know
and he strode past with Dwaymenau's boy on his shoulder,
laughing with cruel glee.

And this boy, Mindon, was beautiful and strong as his
mother, pale olive of face, with the dark and crafty eyes of
the cunning Indian traders, with black hair and a body
straight, strong and long in the leg for his years--apt at
the beginnings of bow, sword and spear--full of promise, if
the promise was only words and looks.

And so matters rested in the palace until
Ananda had ten years and Mindon nine.

It was the warm and sunny winter and the days
were pleasant, and on a certain day the Queen, Maya, went
with her ladies to worship the Blessed One at the Thapinya
Temple, looking down upon the swiftly flowing river. The
temple was exceedingly rich and magnificent, so gilded with
pure gold-leaf that it appeared of solid gold. And about the
upper part were golden bells beneath the jewelled
htee, which wafted very sweetly in the wind and gave
forth a crystal-clear music. The ladies bore in their hands
more gold-leaf, that they might acquire merit by offering
this for the service of the Master of the Law, and indeed
this temple was the offering of the Queen herself, who,
because she bore the name of the Mother of the Lord,
excelled in good works and was the Moon of this lower world
in charity and piety.

Though wan with grief and anxiety, this Queen
was beautiful. Her eyes, like mournful lakes of darkness,
were lovely in the pale ivory of her face. Her lips were
nobly cut and calm, and by the favour of the Guardian Nats,
she was shaped with grace and health, a worthy mother of
kings. Also she wore her jewels like a mighty princess, a
magnificence to which all the people shikoed as she
passed, folding their hands and touching the forehead while
they bowed down, kneeling.

Before the colossal image of the Holy One she
made her offering and, attended by her women, she sat in
meditation, drawing consolation from the Tranquillity above
her and the silence of the shrine. This ended, the Queen
rose and did obeisance to the Lord and, retiring, paced back
beneath the White Canopy and entered the courtyard where the
palace stood--a palace of noble teakwood, brown and golden
and carved like lace into strange fantasies of spires and
pinnacles and branches where Nats and Tree Spirits and
Beloos and swaying river maidens mingled and met amid fruits
and leaves and flowers in a wild and joyous confusion. The
faces, the blowing garments, whirled into points with the
swiftness of the dance, were touched with gold, and so glad
was the building that it seemed as if a very light wind
might whirl it to the sky, and even the sad Queen stopped to
rejoice in its beauty as it blossomed in the sunlight.

And even as she paused, her little son Ananda
rushed to meet her, pale and panting, and flung himself into
her arms with dry sobs like those of an overrun man. She
soothed him until be could speak, and then the grief made
way in a rain of tears.

"Mindon has killed my deer. He bared his knife, slit
his throat and cast him in the ditch and there he
lies."

"There will he not lie long!"
shouted Mindon like a cat of the woods.
Such things were done daily by young and old, and this was a
long sorrow come to a bead between the boys.

Suddenly, lifting the hangings of the palace
gateway, before them stood the mother of Mindon, the Lady Dwaymenau, pale
as wool, having heard the shout of her boy, so that the two
Queens faced each other, each holding the shoulders of her
son, and the ladies watched, mute as fishes, for it was
years since these two had met.

"What have you done to my son?"
breathed Maya the Queen, dry in the throat and all but
speechless with passion. For indeed his face, for a child,
was ghastly.

"Look at his knife! What would he do to
my son?" Dwaymenau was stiff with hate and spoke as to
a slave.

"He has killed my deer and mocks me
because I loved him. He is the devil in this place. Look at
the devils in his eyes. Look quick before he smiles, my
mother."

And indeed, young as the boy was, an evil
thing sat in either eye and glittered upon them. Dwaymenau
passed her hand across his brow, and he smiled and they were
gone.

"The beast ran at me and would have
flung me with his horns," be said, looking up brightly
at his mother. "He had the madness upon him. I struck
once and he was dead. My father would have done the
same."

"That would he not!" said Queen
Maya bitterly. "Your father would have crept up,
fawning on the deer, and offered him the fruits he loved,
stroking him the while. And in trust the beast would have
eaten, and the poison in the fruit would have slain him. For
the people of your father meet neither man nor beast in fair
fight. With a kiss they stab!"

Horror kept the women staring and silent. No
one had dreamed that the scandal had reached the Queen.
Never had she spoken or looked her knowledge but endured all
in patience. Now it sprang out like a sword among them, and
they feared for Maya, whom all loved.

Mindon did not understand. It was beyond him, but be saw he
was scorned. Dwaymenau, her face rigid as a mask, looked
pitilessly at the shaking Queen, and each word dropped from
her mouth, hard and cold as the falling of diamonds. She
refused the insult.

"If it is thus you speak of our lord and
my love, what wonder he forsakes you? Mother of a craven,
milk runs in your veins and his for blood. Take your
slinking brat away and weep together! My son and I go forth
to meet the King as he comes from hunting, and to welcome
him kingly!"

She caught her boy to her with a magnificent
gesture; he flung his little arm about her, and, laughing
loudly they went off together.

The tension relaxed a little when they were
out of sight. The women knew that, since Dwaymenau had
refused to take the Queen's meaning, she would certainly not
carry her complaint to the King. They guessed at her reason
for this forbearance, but, he that as it might, it was
certain that no other person would dare to tell him and risk
the fate that waits the messenger of evil.

The eldest lady led away the Queen, now
almost tottering in the reaction of fear and pain. Oh, that
she had controlled her speech! Not for her own sake--for she
had lost all and the beggar can lose no more--but for the
boy's sake, the unloved child that stood between the
stranger and her hopes. For him she had made a terrible
enemy. Weeping, the boy followed her.

"Take comfort, little son," she
said, drawing him to her tenderly. "The deer can suffer
no more. For the tigers, he does not fear them. He runs in
green woods now where there is none to hunt. He is up and
away. The Blessed One was once a deer as gentle as
yours."

But still the child wept, and the Queen broke
down utterly. "Oh, if life be a dream, let us wake, let
us wake!" she sobbed. "For evil things walk in it
that cannot live in the light. Or let us dream deeper and
forget. Go, little son, yet stay--for who can tell what
waits us when the King comes. Let us meet him here."

For she believed that Dwaymenau would
certainly carry the tale of her speech to the King, and, if
so, what hope but death together?

That night, after the feasting, when the
girls were dancing the dance of the fairies and spirits, in
gold dresses, winged on the legs and shoulders, and high,
gold-spired and pinnacled caps, the King missed the little
Prince, Ananda, and asked why he was absent. No one
answered, the women looking upon each other, until
Dwaymenau, sitting beside him, glimmering with rough pearls
and rubies, spoke smoothly:

"Lord, worshipped and beloved, the two
boys quarrelled this day, and Ananda's deer attacked our
Mindon. He had
a madness upon him and thrust with his horns. But,
Mindon, your
true son, flew in upon him and in a great fight he slit the
beast's throat with the knife you gave him. Did he not
well?"

"Well," said the King briefly.
"But is there no hurt? Have you searched? For he is
mine."

There was arrogance in the last sentence and
her proud soul rebelled, but smoothly as ever she spoke:
"I have searched and there is not the littlest scratch.
But Ananda is weeping because the deer is dead, and his
mother is angry. What should I do?"

"Nothing. Ananda is worthless and
worthless let him be! And for that pale shadow that was once
a woman, let her be forgotten. And now, drink, my
Queen!"

And Dwaymenau drank but the drink was bitter
to her, for a ghost had risen upon her that day. She had
never dreamed that such a scandal had been spoken, and it
stunned her very soul with fear, that the Queen should know
her vileness and the cheat she had put upon the King. As
pure maid he had received her, and she knew, none better,
what the doom would be if his trust were broken and he knew
the child not his. She herself had seen this thing done to a
concubine who had a little offended. She was thrust living
in a sack and this hung between two earthen jars pierced
with small holes, and thus she was set afloat on the
terrible river. And not till the slow filling and sinking of
the jars was the agony over and the cries for mercy
stilled. No, the Queen's speech was safe with her, but was
it safe with the Queen? For her silence, Dwaymenau must take
measures.

Then she put it all aside and laughed and
jested with the King and did indeed for a time forget, for
she loved him for his black-browed beauty and his courage
and royalty and the childlike trust and the man's passion
that mingled in him for her. Daily and nightly such prayers
as she made to strange gods were that she might bear a son,
true son of his.

Next day, in the noonday stillness when all
slept, she led her young son by the hand to her secret
chamber, and, holding him upon her knees in that rich and
golden place, she lifted his face to hers and stared into
his eyes. And so unwavering was her gaze, so mighty the
hard, unblinking stare that his own was held against it, and
he stared back as the earth stares breathless at the moon.
Gradually the terror faded out of his eyes; they glazed as
if in a trance; his head fell stupidly against her bosom;
his spirit stood on the borderland of being and waited.

Seeing this, she took his palm and, moulding
it like wax, into the cup of it she dropped clear fluid from
a small vessel of pottery with the fylfot upon its side and
the disks of the god Shiva. And strange it was to see that
lore of India in the palace where the Blessed Law reigned in
peace. Then, fixing her eyes with power upon Mindon, she bade him, a pure
child, see for her in its clearness.

"Only virgin-pure can see!" she
muttered, staring into his eyes. "See! See!"

The eyes of Mindon were closing. He half opened them and
looked dully at his palm. His face was pinched and yellow.

"A woman. It is like you, mother--it is
like you. I fear very greatly. A knife--a knife! Blood! I
cannot see--I cannot speak! I--I sleep."

His face was ghastly white now, his body cold
and collapsed. Terrified, she caught him to her breast and
relaxed the power of her will upon him. For that moment, she
was only the passionate mother and quaked to think she might
have hurt him. An hour passed and he slept heavily in her
arms, and in agony she watched to see the colour steal back
into the olive cheek and white lips. In the second hour he
waked and stretched himself indolently, yawning like a cat.
Her tears dropped like rain upon him as she clasped him
violently to her.

He writhed himself free, petulant and spoilt.
"Let me be. I hate kisses and women's tricks. I want to
go forth and play. I have had a devil's dream."

"What did you see in your dream, prince
of my heart?" She caught frantically at the last
chance.

"A deer--a tiger. I have forgotten. Let
me go."

He ran off and she sat alone with her doubts
and fears. Yet triumph coloured them too. She saw a dead
woman, a dead child, and herself bending above them. She hid
the vessel in her bosom and went out among her women.

Weeks passed, and never a word that she
dreaded from Maya the Queen. The women of Dwaymenau,
questioning the Queen's women, heard that she seemed to have
heavy sorrow upon her. Her eyes were like dying lamps and
she faded as they. The King never entered her palace.
Drowned in Dwaymenau's wiles and beauty, her slave, her
thrall, he forgot all else but his fighting, his hunting and
his long war-boats, and whether the Queen lived or died, he
cared nothing. Better indeed she should die and her place be
emptied for the beloved, without offence to her powerful
kindred.

And now he was to sail upon a raid against
the Shan Tsaubwa, who had denied him tribute of gold and
jewels and slaves. Glorious were the boats prepared for war,
of brown teak and gilded until they shone like gold. Seventy
men rowed them, sword and lance beside each. Warriors
crowded them, flags and banners fluttered about them; the
shining water reflected the pomp like a mirror and the air
rang with song. Dwaymenau stood beside the water with her
women, bidding the King farewell, and so he saw her, radiant
in the dawn, with her boy beside her, and waved his hand to
the last.

The ships were gone and the days languished a
little at Pagan. They missed the laughter and royalty of the King, and
few men, and those old and weak, were left in the city. The
pulse of life beat slower.

And Dwaymenau took rule in the Golden Palace.
Queen Maya sat like one in a dream and questioned nothing,
and Dwaymenau ruled with wisdom but none loved her. To all
she was the interloper, the witchwoman, the outland
upstart. Only the fear of the King guarded her and her boy,
but that was strong. The boys played together sometimes,
Mindon
tyrannizing and cruel, Ananda fearing and complying, broken
in spirit.

Maya the Queen walked daily in the long and
empty Golden Hall of Audience, where none came now that the
King was gone, pacing up and down, gazing wearily at the
carved screens and all their woodland beauty of gods that
did not hear, of happy spirits that had no pity. Like a
spirit herself she passed between the red pillars, appearing
and reappearing with steps that made no sound, consumed with
hate of the evil woman that had stolen her joy. Like a slow
fire it burned in her soul, and the face of the Blessed One
was hidden from her, and she had forgotten His peace. In
that atmosphere of hate her life dwindled. Her son's
dwindled also, and there was talk among the women of some
potion that Dwaymenau had been seen to drop into his
noontide drink as she went swiftly by. That might be the
gossip of malice, but he pined. His eyes were large like a
young bird's; his hands like little claws. They thought the
departing year would take him with it. What harm? Very
certainly the King would shed no tear.

It was a sweet and silent afternoon and she
wandered in the great and lonely hall, sickened with the
hate in her soul and her fear for her boy. Suddenly she
heard flying footsteps--a boy's, running in mad haste in the
outer hall, and, following them, bare feet, soft,
thudding.

She stopped dead and every pulse
cried--Danger!

No time to think or breathe when Mindon burst into sight,
wild with terror and following close beside him a man--a
madman, a short bright dah in his grasp, his jaws
grinding foam, his wild eyes starting--one passion to
murder. So sometimes from the Nats comes pitiless fury, and
men run mad and kill and none knows why.

Maya the Queen stiffened to meet the danger.
Joy swept through her soul; her weariness was gone. A fierce
smile showed her teeth--a smile of hate, as she stood there
and drew her dagger for defence. For defence the man would
rend the boy and turn on her and she would not die. She
would live to triumph that the mongrel was dead, and her
son, the Prince again and his father's joy--for his heart
would turn to the child most surely. Justice was rushing on
its victim. She would see it and live content, the long
years of agony wiped out in blood, as was fitting. She would
not flee; she would see it and rejoice. And as she stood in
gladness--these broken thoughts rushing through her like
flashes of lightning--Mindon saw her by the pillar and, screaming in
anguish for the first time, fled to her for refuge.

She raised her knife to meet the staring
eyes, the chalk white face, and drive him back on the
murderer. If the man failed, she would not! And even as she
did this a strange thing befell. Something stronger than
hate swept her away like a leaf on the river; something
primeval that lives in the lonely pangs of childbirth, that
hides in the womb and breasts of the mother. It was stronger
than she. It was not the hated Mindon--she saw him no more. Suddenly it
was the eternal Child, lifting dying, appealing eyes to the
Woman, as he clung to her knees. She did not think this--she
felt it, and it dominated her utterly. The Woman answered.
As if it had been her own flesh and blood, she swept the
panting body behind her and faced the man with uplifted
dagger and knew her victory assured, whether in life or
death. On came the horrible rush, the flaming eyes, and, if
it was chance that set the dagger against his throat, it was
cool strength that drove it home and never wavered until the
blood welling from the throat quenched the flame in the wild
eyes, and she stood triumphing like a war-goddess, with the
man at her feet. Then, strong and flushed, Maya the Queen
gathered the half-dead boy in her arms, and, both drenched
with blood, they moved slowly down the hall and outside met
the hurrying crowd, with Dwaymenau, whom the scream had
brought to find her son.

"You have killed him! She has killed
him!" Scarcely could the Rajput woman speak. She was
kneeling beside him--he hideous with blood. "She hated
him always. She has murdered him. Seize her!"

"Woman, what matter your hates and
mine?" the Queen said slowly. "The boy is stark
with fear. Carry him in and send for old Meh Shway Gon. Woman, be
silent!"

When a Queen commands, men and women obey,
and a Queen commanded then. A huddled group lifted the child
and carried him away, Dwaymenau with them, still uttering
wild threats, and the Queen was left alone.

She could not realize what she had done and
left undone. She could not understand it. She had hated,
sickened with loathing, as it seemed for ages, and now, in a
moment it had blown away like a whirlwind that is gone. Hate
was washed out of her soul and had left it cool and white as
the Lotus of the Blessed One. What power had Dwaymenau to
hurt her when that other Power walked beside her? She seemed
to float above her in high air and look down upon her with
compassion. Strength, virtue flowed in her veins; weakness,
fear were fantasies. She could not understand, but knew that
here was perfect enlightenment. About her echoed the words
of the Blessed One: "Never in this world doth hatred
cease by hatred, but only by love. This is an old
rule."

"Whereas I was blind, now I see,"
said Maya the Queen slowly to her own heart. She bad grasped
the hems of the Mighty.

Words cannot speak the still passion of
strength and joy that possessed her. Her step was light. As
she walked, her soul sang within her, for thus it is with
those that have received the Law. About them is the Peace.

In the dawn she was told that the Queen,
Dwaymenau, would speak with her, and without a tremor she
who had shaken like a leaf at that name commanded that she
should enter. It was Dwaymenau that trembled as she came
into that unknown place.

With cloudy brows and eyes that would reveal
no secret, she stood before the high seat where the Queen
sat pale and majestic.

"Is it well with the boy?" the
Queen asked earnestly.

"Well," said Dwaymeneau**, fingering
the silver bosses of her girdle.

"Then--is there more to say?" The
tone was that of the great lady who courteously ends an
audience.

"There is more. The men brought in the
body and in its throat your dagger was sticking. And my son
has told me that your body was a shield to him. You offered
your life for his. I did not think to thank you--but I thank
you." She ended abruptly and still her eyes had never
met the Queens.

"I accept your thanks. Yet a mother
could do no less."

The tone was one of dismissal but still
Dwaymenau lingered.

"The dagger," she said and drew it
from her bosom. On the clear, pointed blade, the blood had
curdled and dried. "I never thought to ask a gift of
you, but this dagger is a memorial of my son's danger. May I
keep it?"

"As you will. Here is the sheath."
From her girdle she drew it--rough silver, encrusted with
rubies from the mountains.

The hand rejected it.

"Jewels I cannot take, but bare steel is
a fitting gift between us two."

"As you will."

The Queen spoke compassionately, and
Dwaymenau, still with veiled eyes, was gone without
farewell. The empty sheath lay on the seat--a symbol of the
sharp-edged hate that had passed out of her life. She
touched the sheath to her lips and, smiling, laid it away.

And the days went by and Dwaymenau came no
more before her, and her days were fulfilled with peace. And
now again the Queen ruled in the palace wisely and like a
Queen, and this Dwaymenau did not dispute, but what her
thoughts were no man could tell.

Then came the end.

One night the city awakened to a wild alarm.
A terrible fleet of war-boats came sweeping along the river
thick as locusts--the war fleet of the Lord of Prome. Battle
shouts broke the peace of the night to horror; axes battered
on the outer doors; the roofs of the outer buildings
were all aflame. It was no wonderful incident, but a common
one enough of those turbulent days reprisal by a powerful
ruler with raids and hates to avenge on the Lord of the
Golden Palace. It was indeed a right to be gainsaid only by
the strong arm, and the strong arm was absent; as for the
men of Pagan,
if the guard failed and the women's courage sank, they would
return to blackened walls, empty chambers and desolation.

At Pagan the guard was small, indeed, for the King's greed
of plunder had taken almost every able man with him. Still,
those who were left did what they could, and the women,
alert and brave, with but few exceptions, gathered the
children and handed such weapons as they could muster to the
men, and themselves, taking knives and daggers, helped to
defend the inner rooms.

In the farthest, the Queen, having given her
commands and encouraged all with brave words, like a wise,
prudent princess, sat with her son beside her. Her duty was
now to him. Loved or unloved, he was still the heir, the
root of the House tree. If all failed, she must make ransom
and terms for him, and, if they died, it must be together.
He, with sparkling eyes, gay in the danger, stood by her.
Thus Dwaymenau found them.

She entered quietly and without any display
of emotion and stood before the high seat.

"Great Queen"--she used that title
for the first time "the leader is Meng Kyinyo of Prome.
There is no mercy. The end is near. Our men fall fast, the
women are fleeing. I have come to say this thing: Save the
Prince."

"And how?" asked the Queen, still
seated. "I have no power."

"I have sent to Maung Tin, abbot of the
Golden Monastery, and he has said this thing. In the Kyoung
across the river he can hide one child among the novices.
Cut his hair swiftly and put upon him this yellow robe. The
time is measured in minutes."

Then the Queen perceived, standing by the
pillar, a monk of a stern, dark presence, the creature of
Dwaymenau. For an instant she pondered. Was the woman
selling the child to death? Dwymenau* spoke no word. Her face
was a mask. A minute that seemed an hour drifted by, and the
yelling and shrieks for mercy drew nearer.

"There will be pursuit," said the
Queen. "They will slay him on the river. Better here
with me."

"There will be no pursuit."
Dwaymenau fixed her strange eyes on the Queen for the first
time.

What moved in those eyes? The Queen could not
tell. But despairing, she rose and went to the silent monk,
leading the Prince by the hand. Swiftly he stripped the
child of the silk pasoh of royalty, swiftly he cut
the long black tresses knotted on the little head, and upon
the slender golden body he set the yellow robe worn by the
Lord Himself on earth, and in the small hand he placed the
begging-bowl of the Lord. And now, remote and holy, in the
dress that is of all most sacred, the Prince, standing by
the monk, turned to his mother and looked with grave eyes
upon her, as the child Buddha looked upon his Mother--also a
Queen. But Dwaymenau stood by silent and lent no help as the
Queen folded the Prince in her arms and laid his hand in the
hand of the monk and saw them pass away among the pillars,
she standing still and white.

She turned to her rival. "If you have
meant truly, I thank you."

"I have meant truly."

She turned to go, but the Queen caught her by
the hand.

"Why have you done this?" she
asked, looking into the strange eyes of the strange woman.

Something like tears gathered in them for a
moment, but she brushed them away as she said hurriedly:

"I was grateful. You saved my son. Is it
not enough?"

"No, not enough?" cried the Queen.
"There is more. Tell me, for death is upon us."

"His footsteps are near," said the
Indian. "I will speak. I love my lord. In death I will
not cheat him. What you have known is true. My child is no
child of his. I will not go down to death with a lie upon my
lips. Come and see."

Dwaymenau was no more. Sundari, the Indian
woman, awful and calm, led the Queen down the long ball and
into her own chamber, where Mindon, the child, slept a drugged sleep. The
Queen felt that she had never known her; she herself seemed
diminished in stature as she followed the stately figure,
with its still, dark face. Into this room the enemy were
breaking, shouldering their way at the door--a rabble of
terrible faces. Their fury was partly checked when only a
sleeping child and two women confronted them, but their
leader, a grim and evil-looking man, strode from the huddle.

"Where is the son of the King?" he
shouted.

"Speak, women! Whose is this boy?"

Sundari laid her hand upon her son's
shoulder.

Not a muscle of her face flickered.

"This is his son."

"His true son-the son of Maya the
Queen?"

"His true son, the son of Maya the
Queen."

"Not the younger--the mongrel?"

"The younger--the mongrel died last week
of a fever."

Every moment of delay was precious. Her eyes
saw only a monk and a boy fleeing across the wide river.

"Which is Maya the Queen?"

"This," said Sundari. "She
cannot speak. It is her son--the Prince."

Maya had veiled her face with her hands. Her
brain swam, but she understood the noble lie. This woman
could love. Their lord would not be left childless. Thought
beat like pulses in her--raced along her veins. She held her
breath and was dumb.

His doubt was assuaged and the lust of
vengeance was on him--a madness seized the man. But even his
own wild men shrank back a moment, for to slay a sleeping
child in cold blood is no man's work.

"You swear it is the Prince. But why?
Why do you not lie to save him if you are the King's
woman?"

"Because his mother has trampled me to
the earth. I am the Indian woman--the mother of the younger,
who is dead and safe. She jeered at me--she mocked me. It is
time I should see her suffer. Suffer now as I have suffered,
Maya the Queen!"

This was reasonable--this was like the women
he had known. His doubt was gone--he laughed aloud.

"Then feed full of vengeance!" he
cried, and drove his knife through the child's heart.

For a moment Sundari wavered where she stood,
but she held herself and was rigid as the dead.

"Tha-du! Well done!" she
said with an awful smile. "The tree is broken, the
roots cut. And now for us women--our fate, 0 master?"

"Wait here," he answered. "Let
not a hair of their heads be touched. Both are fair. The two
for me. For the rest draw lots when all is done."

The uproar surged away. The two stood by the
dead boy. So swift had been his death that he lay as though
he still slept--the black lashes pressed upon his cheek.

With the heredity of their different races
upon them, neither wept. But silently the Queen opened her
arms; wide as a woman that entreats she opened them to the
Indian Queen, and speechlessly the two clung together. For a
while neither spoke.

"My sister!" said Maya the Queen.
And again, "0 great of heart!"

She laid her cheek against Sundari's, and a
wave of solemn joy seemed to break in her soul and flood it
with life and light.

"Had I known sooner!" she said.
"For now the night draws on."

"What is time?" answered the Rajput
woman. "We stand before the Lords of Life and Death.
The life you gave was yours, and I am unworthy to kiss the
feet of the Queen. Our lord will return and his son is
saved. The House can be rebuilt. My son and I were waifs
washed up from the sea. Another wave washes us back to
nothingness. Tell him my story and he will loathe me."

"My lips are shut," said the Queen.
"Should I betray my sister's honour? When he speaks of
the noble women of old, your name will be among them. What
matters which of us he loves and remembers? Your soul and
mine have seen the same thing, and we are one. But I--what
have I to do with life? The ship and the bed of the
conqueror await us. Should we await them, my sister?"

The bright tears glittered in the eyes of
Sundari at the tender name and the love in the face of the
Queen. At last she accepted it.

"My sister, no," she said, and drew
from her bosom the dagger of Maya, with the man's blood
rusted upon it. "Here is the way. I have kept this
dagger in token of my debt. Nightly have I kissed it,
swearing that, when the time came, I would repay my debt to
the great Queen. Shall I go first or follow, my
sister?"

Her voice lingered on the word. It was
precious to her. It was like clear water, laving away the
stain of the shameful years.

"Your arm is strong,," answered the
Queen. "I go first. Because the King's son is safe, I
bless you. For your love of the King, I love you. And here,
standing on the verge of life, I testify that the words of
the Blessed One are truth--that love is All; that hatred is
Nothing."

She bared the breast that this woman had made
desolate--that, with the love of this woman, was desolate no
longer, and, stooping, laid her hand on the brow of
Mindon. Once
more they embraced, and then, strong and true, and with the
Rajput passion behind the blow, the stroke fell and Sundari
had given her sister the crowning mercy of deliverance. She
laid the body beside her own son, composing the stately
limbs, the quiet eyelids, the black lengths of hair into
majesty. So, she thought, in the great temple of the Rajput
race, the Mother Goddess shed silence and awe upon her
worshippers. The two lay like mother and son--one slight
hand of the Queen she laid across the little body as if to
guard it.

Her work done, she turned to the entrance and
watched the dawn coming glorious over the river. The men
shouted and quarrelled in the distance, but she heeded them
no more than the chattering of apes. Her heart was away over
the distance to the King, but with no passion now: so might
a mother have thought of her son. He was sleeping, forgetful
of even her in his dreams. What matter? She was glad at
heart. The Queen was dearer to her than the King--so strange
is life; so healing is death. She remembered without
surprise that she had asked no forgiveness of the Queen for
all the cruel wrongs, for the deadly intent-had made no
confession. Again what matter?, What is forgiveness when
love is all?

She turned from the dawn--light to the light
in the face of the Queen. It was well. Led by such a hand,
she could present herself without fear before the Lords of
Life and Death--she and the child. She smiled. Life is good,
but death, which is more life, is better. The son of the
King was safe, but her own son safer.

When the conqueror re-entered the chamber, he
found the dead Queen guarding the dead child, and across her
feet, as not worthy to lie beside her, was the body of the
Indian woman, most beautiful in death.